


Ten A Penny

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Attempted Murder, Developing Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Male Slash, Pining, Revenge, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:56:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1609229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan left his Parisian home years ago after constantly fighting with his father and found work as a prostitute most agreeable. But then his father is killed by a man calling himself Athos and one of d'Artagnan's favoured customers swears that she will help him get revenge. D'Artagnan burns to gain vengeance but Athos is not what he expected and d'Artagnan's quest is not as simple as he once believed it to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten A Penny

**Author's Note:**

> There's also mention of some d'Artagnan/Milady but I didn't think it was enough to warrant a tag. Enjoy :)

 

 

“You're prepared.”

 

“And yet you think I should wait.”

 

“Because his heart should burn.”

 

“And then?”

 

“And then you enjoy the spoils.”

 

*

 

He was stood by the window, his face turned away. D'Artagnan watched him from the doorway, anger building in him as he took in every detail of the man standing in his room. D'Artagnan's hands curled into fists. He could throw a knife now, he could gain his revenge. He could...but he had made a promise. He was going to make this as painful for Athos as possible.

 

So he wound his anger, with great difficulty despite his training, and composed himself, thinkingof warm dark eyes and the faint spice of perfume on silken skin, her mouth to his ear telling him all that he’d need to know. His spoils.

 

He stepped into the room. The man, Athos, turned towards him immediately, his eyes intense, his features sharp and taut. He was good-looking enough to penetrate d'Artagnan's well-worn armour. D'Artagnan mentally shook any admiration away and concentrated on reading the man in front of him.

 

“It's an unusual man that requests an empty room in this house.”

 

He kept his tone light, his body language relaxed and open despite the anger that still coursed through him. Athos didn't smile back; his gaze flicked over d'Artagnan and did not find him a threat. Good. D'Artagnan crossed to the small crowded table by the armoire.

 

“A drink? If you're in no mood for conversation, or other activities.”

 

That gained a reaction. Athos detached himself from the wall to take a better look at the drinks on offer. Of course he did. D'Artagnan hid his smile and reached for a bottle of good quality wine.

 

“I was told I could only sleep in this establishment if I didn’t sleep alone.”

 

d'Artagnan handed him a goblet full of wine. “So you got a room with an occupant, that's a new name for it.”

 

Athos didn't appear uncomfortable; he accepted the wine with a nod and drank it with the air of a man who wished to drown in the glass. D'Artagnan watched him; his patron had been right – with the right push this man would splinter spectacularly. The stoic way in which he carried himself was obviously a brittle front in d'Artagnan's eyes; he was going to enjoy breaking past it and destroying what he found beneath.

 

His fingers tightened around the stem of his own wine goblet and he turned away slightly to compose himself. He had to be patient, he _had_ to be, then he'd get what he wanted and his father would truly be avenged.

 

Athos was looking at him, admiring him perhaps. D'Artagnan's patron had been right again, d'Artagnan did appeal to him. D'Artagnan casually angled himself to provide Athos with a more enticing view, his shirt was barely laced at the neck and his breeches were easily removed. But Athos was a man with shadows in his eyes and exhaustion clinging to his every movement, d'Artagnan would have to give him just sweet dreams for now.

 

“Most men come here for company, not solitude,” he said aloud, putting down his goblet. “Yet here you are. I’ll admit I'm intrigued, which doesn't happen often.”

 

Athos had emptied his goblet quickly and was now reaching for the bottle. “There are few lodgings left in this city so close to the garrison. I discovered after returning from a recent mission that my landlord had sold my room to another.”

 

“So you seek a place to lay your weary head.”

 

D'Artagnan crossed the room to the bed, a generous pallet and clearly the only place to sleep in the room. He began unlacing his breeches.

 

“I hope you enjoy company more than you enjoy conversation. I'll not sleep on the floor, not without proper motivation first.”

 

He turned away in order to give Athos a truly memorable view. Athos didn't object, d'Artagnan could feel his heated gaze. He thought briefly of the poison he had secreted in a coat pocket, of the knife that would deliver it. Perhaps this wouldn't take as long as he'd feared, Athos was an open wound behind his silence, it wouldn't take much to make him bleed.

 

D'Artagnan stripped down to his smallclothes with practised leisurely movements and lay down on the bed, giving Athos the opportunity to gaze at his barely-covered body before slipping under the covers. There could have been heated disappointment in Athos' stare. D'Artagnan's amusement probably bled through, but it suited the moment. The anger snarling inside of him mixed with anticipation.

 

“Coming, soldier?”

 

Athos stared at him for a moment more; his shoulders very tense, then he gulped down the rest of his wine and disrobed without any embarrassment. Soldiers were rarely ashamed of their own bodies; they didn't have time for such things in their line of work. It was the same in d'Artagnan's job.

 

D'Artagnan blew out the candle and let Athos get settled before leaning over, his breath warm and sudden in Athos' ear.

 

“Let me know if you need anything.”

 

He drew back, catching the hitch in Athos' breath, and smiled into the night.

 

Athos was already dressing when d'Artagnan awoke the next morning, surprised that he had slept so long and that he hadn't woken when Athos had begun moving around. Usually, he woke at the slightest movement, one of the hazards of his work was customers trying to get something extra for free or attempting to rob him while he slept.

 

Athos glanced at him as he tightened a buckle. D'Artagnan wondered suddenly how those buckles would look fastened around his own wrists, Athos' weight pressing down on him. He bit back a moan with a hard flash of anger. He was aiming to gain himself a very different kind of satisfaction when it came to Athos.

 

“Thank you, for your bed and the wine,” Athos said at last, dropping a purse onto the bureau.

 

D'Artagnan smiled slowly, knowing that Athos would track the movement. “Thank _you_ for the company. You'll call again? For the sake of your weary head?”

 

Athos met his gaze, the shadows were still present but there was something else there too, a yearning perhaps. He held himself so apart, how long had it been since he had indulged in anyone's touch? There was a thought to conjure with.

 

D'Artagnan watched as Athos left, hunger, for revenge of course, burning through him.

 

He rose to retrieve the dagger from his armoire and for a while, stared at his reflection in the polished metal.

 

*

 

“He's already in pain.”

 

“He thinks he is.”

 

“Soldiers always carry aches, his are different.”

 

“So you'll have plenty to play with when you twist the knife.”

 

*

 

D'Artagnan was washing up after a client's recent visit when Letya poked her head round the door, looking almost mischievous.

 

“Expecting anyone?”

 

D'Artagnan glanced at her, scrubbing at the liquid that was splattered across his chest. “Do I look expectant?”

 

“Some like a mess.”

 

“Usually one they've caused themselves. What is it?”

 

Letya grinned, the bright colours of her corset catching the eye as she turned to leave. “You have a visitor. And he won't see anyone else.”

 

A moment later, Athos was stood in the doorway. D'Artagnan didn't rush for a shirt, rather he let the rivulets of water continue to fall across his skin, his hand moving the soaked cloth languidly. Athos' gaze flared with heat and remained locked on d'Artagnan. Flattering and extremely useful.

 

If heat flared up inside of d'Artagnan as well, that was a minor matter and was to be completely ignored.

 

“Looking for silent company again, soldier?” he asked, his tone as relaxed as his movements.

 

Athos nodded and d'Artagnan didn't hurry to finish, rather he worked thoroughly until every inch of his front was clean. Afterwards, remaining shirtless, he turned towards where the brandy was. It felt like a moment that required brandy.

 

Athos accepted a glass, his gaze falling on d'Artagnan before wrenching away. D'Artagnan licked a drop of brandy from his glass' lip and hummed to himself. His heart shifted to see Athos so visibly undone – his hand was clenching and his eyes were dark. This man who held himself so carefully was crumbling in d'Artagnan's presence.

 

But d'Artagnan had a job to do so he finished his brandy and gestured to the bed.

 

“After you.”

 

Athos put down his glass and when he moved towards the bed, d'Artagnan brushed a hand across the small of his back, possibly an accidental touch, only it wasn't. Athos froze but when d'Artagnan didn't touch him again, he moved to the bed and began unlacing his boots. D'Artagnan knelt to help him.

 

He caressed Athos' ankles and looked up through his eyelashes, a blatant sensuous invite. They stared at each other for a moment, then d'Artagnan fluidly rose to his feet. This was a dance and he knew how to lead it.

 

After he’d removed his breeches and had lain down next to Athos, he pressed his arm to his bedmate's. He looked across slowly, noting the scars that marred Athos' skin and how Athos watched him closely, as assessingly as d'Artagnan was watching him. Heat rippled through d'Artagnan.

 

He thought of his father, he thought of Milady's words.

 

He smoothly propped himself up and slid a hand down to Athos' hip, feeling how the Musketeer swayed into the touch. The man really was touch-starved; he was practically shadows held together by grief and pain. D'Artagnan wondered what lay behind that, suddenly with Athos so close and pliable d’Artagnan _wanted_ to know.

 

This man was not just an idea, a prey that d'Artagnan been preparing for for months now. He was flesh and blood, very well put together, with a desperate sort of heat locked behind cracked stone.

 

D'Artagnan swallowed and licked his lips. Milady's words reminded him to focus.

 

Athos had not stopped d’Artagnan’s movements; his eyes were pinned on d'Artagnan as though urging him to continue, as though he could not verbally articulate his need. He truly was a man drowning. D'Artagnan's hand was too tender as it reached to circle Athos' cock.

 

Athos made a noise, needy and fractured. D'Artagnan's grip became firm and he began a slow rhythm, wanting to coax more noises from the man beneath him, hungry for Athos' release. Here, he had power over Athos. It was a heady thing, it was a victory.

 

Athos gasped and arched his back, his hips thrusting. d'Artagnan used his free hand to stroke through Athos' hair, a mistakenly gentle gesture but he did it anyway so that he could hoard more of the yearning look that Athos was wearing. He did not kiss Athos, though dangerously he wanted to.

 

With a concerted effort, d'Artagnan swallowed such a distracting desire and increased his rhythm. Athos became louder, groaning until he reached his climax and d'Artagnan felt the familiar liquid rush of release. His heart was racing and his gaze lingered on Athos' expression; on how relaxed and sated he looked. It was an expression that suited him. D'Artagnan almost stroked fingers down Athos' cheek. He sucked his fingers clean instead, enjoying how Athos watched him, still breathless, still heated. Another victory for d'Artagnan.

 

Then he felt his heart move and he nearly scrambled off of the bed. This was not supposed to happen. The control was what mattered, the way he was drawing Athos in, compelling him to keep returning. How contented Athos momentarily looked, how relaxed, did not matter. It mean that Athos' fall into pain would be greater, that was all. There was no other reason to look at him intently, no other reason at all.

 

Athos touched his shoulder, as though testing ground and then reached below the covers. “May I?”

 

D'Artagnan paused before speaking because not every client was so generous. He managed a small smile. “If that's your desire. It won't cost you more coin.”

 

Athos eased himself up into an almost seated position, his warm breath d'Artagnan's face. He looked at d'Artagnan's mouth and gripped d'Artagnan's cock with an ease and lack of awkwardness that spoke volumes. D'Artagnan pushed into his touch, he did not have to playact his need. He had been hard since first reaching for Athos' length. Athos touched his mouth to d'Artagnan's arm, then pressed more firmly, running his teeth along the soft skin as his hand moved faster.

 

The combination stoked fire in d'Artagnan's belly and he made sure not to look into Athos' eyes; Athos might see too much truth in them. This didn't matter, it didn't. All that mattered was that Athos believed that d'Artagnan enjoyed his touch and his company, that d'Artagnan wanted him to come back. All that mattered was drawing Athos further in so that the end point of all this would be even more devastating.

 

When he spent, he sagged into Athos, his cheek resting against Athos' head, his hair soft, smelling of gunpowder and sweat. Athos wiped his hand on the covers and pressed his mouth a final time to d'Artagnan's skin. The touch left a burning sensation in its wake.

 

D'Artagnan turned away as though seeking sleep. He needed the paltry space and privacy to collect himself. He'd felt the events of the evening deeper than he'd expected and he'd felt more than just the satisfaction of knowing that he was successfully reeling in his hated mark. This was _not_ going to be a problem, this was _not_ going to be too much. It couldn't be. Everything important, his hate and anger, would overcome whatever unexpected arousal and need that Athos had stirred up in him. D'Artagnan reached for thoughts of Milady, of her skin and scent, but he was surrounded by Athos. The man's arm was wrapped around him. He did not ask for more, for intimate conversation or further meetings. Instead he breathed easily beside d'Artagnan, he was at peace. D'Artagnan slept too easily as well.

 

Athos was leaving just as d'Artagnan woke the next morning. He paused to look at d'Artagnan from the doorway and nodded, like gratitude and a promise, before walking away. He had left more money than they’d agreed upon.

 

D'Artagnan stared at the purse and noted how his hand was stroking the skin that Athos' mouth had occupied so recently. D'Artagnan should have been controlling this dance, so why it did feel like it was controlling him?

 

He threw the purse across the room and refused to see any clients for several hours. Athos' money made such a thing possible, d'Artagnan hated that. He did.

 

*

 

“You've gotten under his skin.”

 

“He's not what I expected.”

 

“The world sees the dedicated soldier, but underneath there's so much self-righteousness. Many have suffered, grieved, because of him.”

 

“He suffers too.”

 

“You think he feels guilty? Don't be fooled, d'Artagnan, he will burn you, as he burned your father.”

 

*

 

“You're quiet today,” Athos observed.

 

D'Artagnan's head barely lifted from where it was pillowed on Athos' chest. There were many things he wished to say. He concentrated on Athos' warmth, on how his hand stroked down d'Artagnan's back, on the sure knowledge that the man who churned his feelings so was the same man that had killed his father.

 

“Do you ever think about the men you meet in battle?” he said at last, his tone almost idle. “The ones you cross swords with?”

 

Athos shifted. “Blood spills, but it's not forgotten.”

 

“And if someone tries to stick a knife in your back?”

 

“A Musketeer has comrades to prevent such things.”

 

“Friends?”

 

D'Artagnan moved so that he was looking down at Athos, interested in his answer. Athos seemed such a solitary figure, would his friends, his comrades, come looking if he died? Would they mourn or swear revenge? What was another corrupt soldier dead? What indeed.

 

Athos' smile was wry. “Despite my misgivings.”

 

“I'm sure they say the same.”

 

“Frequently, usually to my face.”

 

D'Artagnan laughed, lately Athos had revealed an dry humour which often caught d'Artagnan off guard. He found himself more and more off guard around Athos.

 

“That's good, that you have friends. Soldiers' lives always seem so lonely.”

 

Athos nodded and touched d'Artagnan's chin gently. He was always so careful with his touches, as though he'd hurt d'Artagnan with the slightest pressure, as though he wasn't worthy. He wasn't, d'Artagnan told himself over and over, Athos couldn't be worthy.

 

Such a thought triggered more words. “How do you comprehend those that spill blood, those that hurt you and your friends?”

 

Athos tensed but he didn't exactly move away. D'Artagnan didn't either, he needed Athos' answer. It felt vitally important.

 

Athos blinked slowly and turned to d'Artagnan. “They fight just as we do, for what they believe in, be it money or cause or country. So like us, they should expect to suffer, to fall.”

 

“To kill.”

 

Maybe Athos heard something in d'Artagnan's voice because he nodded and gentled a hand through d'Artagnan's hair. D'Artagnan closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

 

“When no other way is open.”

 

d'Artagnan took a deep breath and chanced a look towards Athos, hoping that his own mask held. “So you regret past actions?”

 

Athos touched the locket that always hung on a chain around his neck. “There are always regrets in this life. Mine will drag me down one day.”

 

He didn't sound angry about such a fate, in fact he sounded resigned, as though he deserved eternal suffering. D'Artagnan wanted to ask, wanted to reveal his father's name, to see how it would affect Athos' expression. But Athos' face was already rife with such self-loathing and hurt, d'Artagnan feared that nothing he said now would penetrate. It was not an excuse, it was not. He tucked himself back under Athos' chin, providing the warmth and touch the man needed.

 

Silently and repeatedly, d'Artagnan mouthed his father's name. He almost hoped it would audibly escape, almost.

 

*

 

“Now is the time.”

 

“It is?”

 

“What's wrong? You were so _eager_ before.”

 

“I was. I am.”

 

“So he'll finally pay for what he did, and you will have your reward.”

 

“...Yes.”

 

*

 

D'Artagnan's hand did not shake when he poured Athos a brandy. The man was now visiting d'Artagnan almost three times a week. He was hooked, though their mouths had still not yet touched. D'Artagnan had lain on his back beneath Athos, as he had done with many men before. Perhaps he clung a little tighter, moaned a little louder. Such things should not matter, d'Artagnan took a deep breath to steady himself.

 

Athos had shown himself to be honourable and decent with his words and actions, he had also shown himself to be filled with pain and grief. Once or twice he had arrived drunk, his touches more desperate, a name on his lips that d'Artagnan had not recognised but that sounded like a plea. What was it that was eating him from the inside out?

 

D'Artagnan wanted to pry it from him. He could use it against the man, he should, to increase Athos' pain. It was what the man deserved. D'Artagnan had a dagger and he had poison. He had his father's murderer eating out of his hand.

 

“Alexandre d'Artagnan.”

 

Athos glanced up, but he did not look as though he recognised the name. D'Artagnan handed him a brandy, his heart thumping. He couldn't do this without knowing.

 

“Do you know him?”

 

Athos frowned and shook his head. “Should I?”

 

D'Artagnan had no answer. Had Athos known his father? Or was he just a nameless face, butchered for no decent reason? Had Athos' grief caused him to behave in such a way?

 

D'Artagnan was grasping for explanations. He drained his brandy glass.

 

He savoured Athos' touch that night, his thrusts and his moans. He tucked them close to his heart. He would be putting Athos out of his misery, really. Hadn't Athos been clear that he would readily welcome death? Hadn't d'Artagnan always been willing to do whatever it took to find and slay his father's killer?

 

He dropped a mixture into Athos' wine. The Musketeer would sleep heavily now, by the time he woke, he would be dying. D'Artagnan watched him climax and then wiped him clean as Athos drank the wine. He watched Athos' eyes close.

 

He fetched the dagger and dipped it in the poison that he had hidden in his armoire. He stood over Athos, his heart in his mouth.

 

Athos deserved this, Athos desired this.

 

Alexandre d'Artagnan deserved this.

 

D'Artagnan cut Athos' leg deeply. He dropped the dagger on the bed and watched. He had to sink to his knees, his legs could not support him.

 

He would raise the alarm the next morning, after he had disposed of the poison, the dagger, the wine, and the goblet.

 

D'Artagnan's heartbeat was too fast, his mouth felt dry and cottony. This was right, this was righteous.

 

He leaned in and kissed Athos' cheek.

 

Then he had to leave the room, he had to, just for a little while. He sent a swift prayer up to his father. He hoped that he had done enough. He needed...he needed Milady. She said that she'd be waiting for him. But outside his door, he only found Letya looking very happy.

 

“Have you seen my patron?” he asked dazedly.

 

“Your regular.” Letya's smile only grew. “Of course, she was just here. Watching.”

 

“Watching?”

 

Letya nudged him. “You know what she likes, she likes to see you perform. Always pays well. Said you were seeing a friend of hers as a favour, she watched and then got us to call soldiers in because she said her friend would be dead drunk and difficult.”

 

A chill flew through d'Artagnan. Milady had been here, but she'd been watching him with Athos? And she had asked for soldiers to be called? They would find Athos dead in d'Artagnan's bed, they would find irrefutable proof of d'Artagnan's involvement in Athos' death. They would...

 

Milady had done that to him, on _purpose_? He thought about her warm gaze, her beautiful touch, the way she had spoken about Athos, about how he had hurt her. Had he truly burned her heart too?

 

Why had she done this to d'Artagnan?

 

D'Artagnan shook his head. He had wanted answers and she had promised him everything and now...now she was gone. Had he been so wrong about her? Could he have been wrong about...? Could he take that chance?He had to think, he had know...

 

“When the soldiers get here, tell them that Athos' friends at the barracks have to be found immediately. He's dying and won't see anyone but them. Now!”

 

Shocked, Letya fled and d'Artagnan ran back inside his room. Athos was still sleeping, in fact he looked very much at peace. D'Artagnan gazed down at Athos' leg, at the oozing cut that would kill the Musketeer. He thought of his father's teachings, of hearing them so long ago, back before d'Artagnan had stormed out of the Paris home that he'd grown up in.

 

Poison could be drawn out. He could...God, what could he do? What _should_ he do?

 

He gathered the poison and the dagger, he tried to think of the details but Milady hadn't told him the poison's name. She had thought of everything. Why had she done this? How guilty was Athos? D'Artagnan's information had largely come from Milady; she had directed him to people who had apparently witnessed his father's death. Had she falsely drawn them into this plan of hers?

 

He stared helplessly at Athos; the man was beginning to sweat. He didn't know how long he stared for until there were hurried footsteps and shouts and his door was thrown open. Two Musketeers strode in, pistols pointed, their eyes scanning the room to find Athos and d'Artagnan.

 

“Athos!”

 

D'Artagnan motioned numbly to Athos' leg. “Poison, I couldn't...I don't know...”

 

The slimmer stranger rushed immediately towards the bed, stowing his pistol and opening a cloth to reveal medical instruments. The heavier-set man kept his pistol drawn and looked at d'Artagnan with deep suspicion.

 

“You're the reason he now spends less time at the tavern, are you?”

 

D'Artagnan shrugged and tried to focus, tried to order his thoughts and feelings. “I...”

 

“Porthos, get me water. He needs to cool down.”

 

The larger man, Porthos, looked around until d'Artagnan pointed to a large jug on the drinks table. Porthos nodded and quickly grasped it up. D'Artagnan watched the other man tend to Athos. He evidently knew what he was doing, checking Athos expertly and handling the poison carefully.

 

“What happened here?” he asked, taking the water from Porthos who was looming over them all.

 

D'Artagnan shook his head. “She...I thought...this was supposed be different.”

 

“You're not making any sense,” Porthos told him frankly, a hand still on his pistol. “So how about you change that?”

 

D'Artagnan fixed his gaze on the dagger, on Athos' blood staining it. “I did it. I killed him.”

 

Porthos loomed even more menacingly, his pistol now pointed firmly at d'Artagnan. “Start explaining, before you join him.”

 

D'Artagnan looked up defiantly. “He killed my father.”

 

That got both Musketeers' attention. The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Was your father a soldier, a criminal, someone likely to cause a Musketeer to draw arms?”

 

“No!”

 

The doctor nodded as his hands worked feverishly over Athos. “Then I'd say that your information was regrettably false. It just so happens that a gang of cutthroats-for-hire have been disguising themselves as Musketeers for months now, committing crimes that will see them hung.”

 

“We only caught them a few days back,” Porthos added, looking at d'Artagnan intently. “Their leader claimed he was Athos more than once.”

 

D'Artagnan's numbness increased, he couldn't look away from Athos, from the blood that was running down his leg. D'Artagnan had caused that. If Athos' friends were telling the truth, then d'Artagnan truly hadn't put things right. He had only brought further dishonour to his father.

 

“There,” the doctor sat back, his hands bloody. “We'll know in a few hours.”

 

He touched his own crucifix pendant, muttering prayers under his breath. Both he and Porthos stared at Athos, their concern for him clear. D'Artagnan wondered what it was like to have such loyal caring friends.

 

“I need a drink,” the doctor announced, getting up to walk over to the drinks table. “And a little more information, your name for example?”

 

D'Artagnan thought briefly of a disguise, a lie. But it seemed as though everything he’d once thought solid and real was actually lies, except for Athos who could be gone from this world. D'Artagnan's heart lurched and he stared down at Athos as he answered.

 

“D'Artagnan.”

 

“D'Artagnan, well, I’m Aramis, this is Porthos.” Aramis poured three generous brandies and gestured towards d'Artagnan. “Tell us.”

 

“Tell you what?”

 

“Everything would be a good start.”

 

Porthos lowered his pistol but his gaze didn’t leave d'Artagnan, even as he drank his brandy. And the way that Aramis had spoken made the light request sound more like an order. D'Artagnan could die for this, if he killed an innocent man, a good man, a man who inexplicably _stirred_ him, then he would deserve the death that Athos had been seeking.

 

So with his eyes on Athos, he told Aramis and Porthos about how long he'd worked in the brothel. He'd run from his Parisian home several years ago, it felt like a lifetime had passed since then. He'd run to escape the frequent arguments with his father and to seek adventure and his fortune. He'd sworn that he'd never end up as poor as Alexandre d'Artagnan. Nobody had taken his ambitions seriously at the barracks and he had soon found himself with debts to pay. Naturally, he had looked for comfort and when he had spent a night with a woman who had required payment, she had told him that he could make money that way too, that he would find many people interested in paying for his face, form, and skills. He hadn’t met Milady until later.

 

First, his father had died, had been murdered in a tavern. D’Artagnan hadn't seen him since leaving the family home and one day had received a hasty note from a friend, a trader who had long done business with Alexandre d’Artagnan and a man that d'Artagnan trusted. A band of Musketeers had stolen from another party staying at the tavern; d’Artagnan’s father had been killed by a Musketeer calling himself Athos.

 

D’Artagnan had stewed and raged. Some of his customers had liked that.

 

Then he'd met Milady. She'd paid for his services several times, for the first time since his father's murder he'd found himself very much interested in his work. She had captivated him, especially when she'd mentioned hearing talk of his father's death, that people she knew held information. She'd been visiting him regularly by then and had showed herself to be angry about Alexandre's death, particularly the manner of it. She'd wanted to help d'Artagnan, to right the wrong that had been done; she had claimed that Athos had wronged her too.

 

She had sworn that Athos would come looking for company one night and that he would want d'Artagnan. She had been right. She had probably somehow ensured that events would happen in such a way.

 

Aramis eyed him. “Your lady love, she didn't stay to revel in your victory?”

 

d'Artagnan shook his head. “She sent for soldiers and I can't...she's gone.”

 

“You stayed, that's something.”

 

“Maybe if he lives,” Porthos muttered, nodding towards Athos.

 

Aramis leaned forward, catching d'Artagnan's eye. “The man who murdered your father has been brought to justice, d'Artagnan, and his name is not Athos.”

 

“We found bodies at a tavern on the eastern road, important letters and money were stolen,” Porthos added.

 

“And Spanish doubloons were found in the snow,” finished Aramis, then hesitating a fraction before speaking. “Your father was buried?”

 

d'Artagnan only nodded. He had missed the funeral, he had sent money to pay for the burial, barely enough. He had stared at the ground and had cursed Athos' name. He had asked for God's help in achieving righteous vengeance. He had later believed that God had answered his prayers.

 

Aramis murmured quietly, Latin like soothing rain as he again touched the cross that hung around his neck. D'Artagnan closed his eyes and lay down next to Athos, careful not to disturb him. His world had been shaken apart, so much of it didn't make sense now. Milady had not come to him as she'd always said that she would once Athos was punished. Athos suffered now and she was gone, leaving d'Artagnan to suffer too.

 

“You were her weapon.” That was Porthos, casting a shadow over the bed. “Your job's done, leaving her hands clean.”

 

Something stuck in d'Artagnan's throat, he kept his eyes on Athos. Aramis and Porthos talked quietly, one of them left the room and then returned, locking the door behind them. At one point Aramis checked on Athos. Then he blew out the candles and lay on the floor beside Porthos, who curled easily around him.

 

D'Artagnan didn't truly notice. When he slept, his dreams were full of blood.

 

*

 

In the morning, Athos was awake and looking at d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan stared back, his heart in his mouth. Aramis and Porthos weren't present. Had they been a dream?

 

Athos was alive, his leg was bound and he was alive. D'Artagnan could not stop looking at him.

 

Athos broke the tense potent silence. “You tried to kill me.”

 

D'Artagnan swallowed, Athos' voice made his skin heat. He was glad that Athos was still breathing, he needed to...he needed to hear the truth, he needed to know. He wanted to believe, so much more than he'd realised.

 

“I did. I...I was told you killed my father.”

 

Athos frowned for a moment, then his expression cleared. “Alexandre d'Artagnan.”

 

D'Artagnan nodded, every movement felt painful. Athos hadn't touched him since waking, d'Artagnan felt starved for it. His want for Athos felt even more potent now as his carefully-built barriers had tumbled down amid the rawness of the previous evening

 

Athos must hate him, he was already full of so much pain and d'Artagnan had only added to it.

 

“Why did you stay?”

 

It wasn't the question that d'Artagnan had expected. Athos' gaze on him was keen, as though searching for answers. D'Artagnan did not want to hear lies himself so he told the truth as though offering an exchange.

 

“I found I could be wrong, that I _wanted_ to be. I found...I found I cared.”

 

The silence was weighty and Athos shifted, his arm touching d'Artagnan's. “You were betrayed.”

 

Had Aramis and Porthos told him? D'Artagnan could only nod, not able to articulate the morass of confusion, pain, and anger that thoughts of Milady stirred in him. The touch of Athos' hand to his cheek startled d'Artagnan.

 

“You stayed, and you saved my life.”

 

“After nearly ending it first.”

 

“Ask me.”

 

D'Artagnan searched Athos' expression first and then asked the question that he had wanted to use as an accusation since first laying eyes on Athos.

 

“Did you kill my father?”

 

Athos shook his head. “The evening you mentioned to Aramis and Porthos, the evening that your father was killed, I was in Paris, guarding the King during a meeting known only to few. The Cardinal can attest to my presence there throughout the night, though I suspect he would only do so if forced to swear an oath. The King can vouch for me also.”

 

D'Artagnan had heard about Cardinal Richelieu from several of the soldiers who'd visited him, the Cardinal apparently made no secret of his feelings towards the Musketeer regiment. He wished to disband them. If even he, and the King, could vouch for Athos' presence...

 

D'Artagnan closed his eyes. He had almost killed Athos, an innocent man, a man that warmed d'Artagnan's heart.

 

Athos' hand stroked d'Artagnan's face. “Grief and love, they ruin us all.”

 

They basked in the silence together, connected by that one touch, until Aramis and Porthos returned with breakfast and news that their Captain had heard of Athos' plight and so was allowing him time off to recover.

 

D'Artagnan listened as the Musketeers talked, his chest felt hollow but his heart overflowed. He was glad that Athos lived, more than glad if truth be told. But where did this leave him? Revenge had been taken from him, his father was still dead. Milady had still abandoned him to face the noose alone.

 

Athos was still touching him though.

 

D'Artagnan took a chance and wrapped a fervent hand around Athos' wrist, he could feel the man's steady pulse.

 

Aramis and Porthos had brought him breakfast and weren't talking of arresting him. There was much being said in raised eyebrows and glances though. D'Artagnan tried to focus on Athos instead.

 

Until Aramis slapped a hand to his thigh and got to his feet with a transparently significant look. “We should leave d'Artagnan to his work and get you to your lodgings. I doubt you'd rest well here.”

 

D'Artagnan wanted to protest, he wanted to enjoy Athos' touch for as long as possible until the Musketeer inevitably and permanently disappeared from his life. D'Artagnan had thought that he had found respite and great fulfilment in Milady. But the feel of Athos' hand on his skin said differently.

 

Life was twisting d'Artagnan badly, he needed to think and rest and work. He also needed to see Athos again, there was a depth to that need that d'Artagnan was still coming to terms with, but how could Athos ever allow another meeting after d'Artagnan's reprehensible actions?

 

D'Artagnan's heart shook.

 

Athos looked at him and turned back to his friends. “I will join you outside in a moment.”

 

After Aramis and Porthos exited, both with nods towards d'Artagnan which felt more friendly than d'Artagnan most likely deserved, especially as Porthos didn't even draw his sword, Athos carefully eased himself up and inspected his wound. There were no signs of infection and though he looked a little pale, he was breathing easily.

 

D'Artagnan watched closely as Athos began to pull on his clothing. He needed help with his breeches and his boots, d'Artagnan kept his touches light and careful. He tried not to lean into Athos, he likely failed.

 

Athos walked slowly to the door, d'Artagnan a hairsbreadth behind him, his thoughts a jumble, his need burning yet so cored with guilt.

 

When Athos looked at him now, there were walls up, but there was still the yearning that d'Artagnan remembered well from their many nights together. Both of them still longed for a balm for their grief, for an end to their pain. Athos sought his with sword and pistol. d'Artagnan thought of the friendship he'd witnessed between the Musketeers, of how warmed and stirred he'd felt with Athos from the beginning. Athos might wish to drown himself in an honourable death, but d'Artagnan would be content to lose himself in such bonds of friendship and affection.

 

Neither of them were on easy paths. And now those paths were likely to be separate ones.

 

D'Artagnan's hand curled tightly, his fingernails digging into the softness of his palm. Athos' expression was measured now, as though he'd found what he was looking for. It was a look that reminded d'Artagnan too sharply of Milady.

 

Athos leaned forward and when he wasn't stopped, he kissed d'Artagnan, a warm unexpected press of mouths that made d'Artagnan's heart beat wildly. He spent so much time in bed, for money, for apparent revenge, for a way to forget his pain yet this simple chaste touch felt as though it was turning everything over inside of him. D'Artagnan's grip tightened, the kiss couldn't end, it felt too vital, too enormous to dissipate. But it did.

 

He made a noise as Athos withdrew. Athos looked at him once more, a rawness present in his face like an old friend. Then he carefully walked through the door and out of the establishment.

 

D'Artagnan touched a hand to his lips. It hadn't felt like a goodbye.

 

He sat down on the bed and stared into the nearby glass. He had a lot to think about, he had customers to see. His sheets still smelled of Athos.

 

D'Artagnan blinked and took a deep breath. His reflection did the same. It did not shatter.

 

_-the end_


End file.
